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UNTITLED 11 //

loserluth:

I’ve been thinking about death quite a lot recently. Not death as in actual death but rather the termination of my existence. I’d like to think that I died a long time ago— when Rosie died, when my parents got divorced, when the abuse got worse, when I decided to separate myself from everyone else to the point where I was constantly floating in some sort of dissociative state. But that’s not true and I know it’s not true because I still have a love for certain things. Or maybe passion is a better word— I don’t really remember what it feels like to love nor to be loved. Or maybe I’m not focusing on the right word, maybe ‘love’ wasn’t the problem, maybe the problem was ‘things’. Maybe there’s something wrong with the fact that only on paper and pen am I able to find some sort of sanity, or that only in the blazing heat of a fire am I able to feel alive. 

I’m not dead but I’m not quite alive either— it’s like Im standing in a shower soaked in gasoline trying to decide whether I should light a match or not.

loserluth:

MOODY JUDY
loserluth:

BLUES
loserluth:

WHO AM I
loserluth:

"The say home is where the heart is— but darling I can’t seem to find mine"
LOST 

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UNTITLED 10 //

loserluth:

I hate not being inspired 

actually I hate not being able to inspire myself

All I want to do is write

well actually I wouldn’t mind dying—

but not drowning, I’m so fucking tired of drowning in my own thoughts 

writing keeps me sane

and I mean painting n sketching is cool too 

but, I’m left handed— my grandfather is convinced it makes me the spawn of satan

and I just might be, or maybe there is no spawn of satan

maybe I’m the one and only satan and I’ve been reincarnated millions of different times and this time I’ve taken the form of a teenage girl

maybe there is no hell except for the once you create in your own mind 

I guess that would make me my own very personal satan

my paintings and sketches smudge b/c I’m left handed 

and as for my writing, it’s the same 

or maybe its because what I’m trying to say is hazy

maybe I’m hazy and the harsh slants are there b/c from my exterior you can clearly tell I’m rigid and sharp like jagged glass

or maybe its because my reality is hazy 

or is the world hazy

or is my perspective hazy 

maybe I’m just one big fucking ink stain— a primary source that’s unreadable to anyone but the writer

open for interpretation but closed to explanation


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loserluth:

Regal…or Whatever